Among Dusty Books
by JessWho
Summary: A plotless, but not smutless one-shot.


_A/N: This story was long overdue, I started it over 6 months, but it ended up inspiring two or three other stories that distracted me. I started it during my Library obsesson which is still on going, but unfortunately nothing this interesting ever happens._

* * *

This is only one person's, one woman's fault. Alex Drake, a woman of the law. The majority of the blame is to lay with her. This is one act he is not getting lumbered with the blame for.  
He sends a request up to whoever, whatever hides behind the stars that the crow at reception keeps her and her sharp tongue planted behind her desk.  
The more he runs the sequence of events through his mind the more fixed he is in his insistence that this is his DI's fault and not his.  
She provoked him.

Hell will freeze over before Gene Hunt will ever wear the kind of clothes Alex Drake wears, so Satan can hang up his ice skates.  
He is sure they are organized to tempt him. He can imagine her standing in lace stocking tops, dainty French knickers and matching corset, trying to devise an outfit that will render the whole of the office momentarily speechless before the howls and whistles began.  
Alex does not do frumpy. She is supposed to be a librarian, bookish and conservative, but with Alex left unsupervised: and he had very much wanted to supervise, she has put together something elegant, tailored and far too sexy for anyone to believe for a naive second that she works in a library.  
The heels for a start are ridiculous. Black patent and impossibly high and if you were to travel farther up her legs; which his eyes are doing as slowly as he can get away with, a few inches above the knee is the start of her tightly tailored pitch black skirt and teamed with the shoes it makes her look fierce. More then that, like she holds all the power. He half hopes and half fears she will have Police issue cuffs dangling from one finger and her attention and intentions revolving only around him.  
The shirt is a creamy white that in his opinion, which is obviously the only one that matters, is unnecessary, flimsy, undoubtedly expensive and near enough see through that he can see the dark fabric of her bask beneath it. Even her hair is fluffed and her lips glossed to entice him.

His patience snaps at the hypnotic sway of her hips as she climbed up and down a ladder without any clear reason to do so. It is also around this time that he realizes his killer is not here and she has been wasting his time.  
He can feel the need to shout pointlessly as frustration bubbles through his blood. Gene stares at her perched on the old polished desk, legs crossed and her hands taking her weight as she leans back, her smile anything but demure as she asks, "What's the problem, Guv?"  
"What do you think the bloody problem is?" He hisses through gritted teeth, "You've been having me for a ruddy fool! The bastard killers not here and you know it."  
Her eyes flicker around them taking in their secluded surroundings. "Well, I did have an inkling he wasn't."  
"And when did you get this pretty little 'inkling' of yours?" Gene asks with an imitation of her finger wiggling.  
Alex falsifies a thoughtful look for the few seconds it take his patience to slip again. "Spit it out woman."  
"Few hours ago."  
"A few hours ago?" He shouts and suddenly remembers where they are and takes a menacing step towards her so that the leg she has crossed over the other is unintentionally pressing against his thigh. He continues with a rumbling, "And you didn't think to enlighten me because?"  
"Well, I was rather enjoying myself actually and it looked like you were too."  
She must have seen him looking, because she isn't completely wrong. Despite the frosty welcoming from the receptionist he had found something of interest among the fading book covers and the worn patches in the carpet, but that had been Alex Drake in that skirt and he would have been perfectly content staring at her backside from the privacy of him office.  
"Can't say this place hold many thrills for me, Bolls. It might tickle your fancy, but not mine."  
His heart betrays him by beating faster as she sits up and leans into him ever so slightly, "And what, Mister Hunt, does tickle your fancy?" She asks flirtatiously, not taking her eyes off him as she uncrosses her legs and slides her shapely calve down the length of his. She smiles at the strain in his jaw and the visible pulse in his neck.  
"I can think of a few things." he says huskily.  
"Tell me." Alex speaks so quietly he has to move forwards to hear her, "Even better," her lips brushing against his soft ear lobe, "Show me."

It seems like her words are making a circling echo in his head. She looked so calm when she said it, but as he fixes her with a blank look, his stare rationalizing the situation her teeth begin to worry her bottom lip.  
He is sure the feel of her under him is worth risking many things, but their developing friendship and his pride if this is all some twisted little joke she has concocted to prove she is his better is not worth the bruises.  
Her lower lip is a swollen pink and he has to tear his gaze away from the delicious spectacle to finally inspect the swirl of green and hazel in her eyes. He finds them shockingly dilated, amplified with uncovered lust. He barely stops the half moan, half whimper at the sight of her looking at him with such a feverish hunger. Not a joke then.  
She reaches up to slide the soft fabric of his tie between delicate fingers, with a cocky arch of her eyebrow she goads him into action and without further ado he presses his mouth not to her lips, but through the gap in her shirt just in the dip of her collar bone, his tongue tracing the hollow of her throat and following the line up her neck to behind her ear where he lays his first kiss.  
He feels her tense with a gasp at the contact, but instead of pulling away like he expects her to, she finds purchase in the collar of his jacket to lift herself close, tilting her face towards him so her wanting lips are millimeters from his. Gene watches as her eyes close with a flutter of long lashes and allows her breath to tickle against his lips and with a bruising crush he has his mouth on hers.

His hands on Alex are demanding as he pulls her to the edge of the desk and stands between her legs as his mouth ravishes hers.  
She is a dying mans wish. Beautiful lashes rest on her cheeks, the contours of which are blushed a flustering pink. He wants so badly to close his eyes and enjoy the rare perfection that is her soft body and wet mouth against his, but he is all to eager to set every detail of her to the vault that is his mind.  
Alex curves her legs up and around his waist, Gene's hand slides just under her skirt to grip her thigh; fingertips pushing into the soft flesh to keep her secure.  
She uses her mouth to tease his with nips, the slide of her tongue over his bottom lip as she gropes down his spine to his backside and pulls him roughly into her. The evidence of his arousal hits her where even among layers of clothing he can feel the heat of her desire. She moans and Gene growls in response.  
His hands feverish and clammy as he brushes them up her arms towards the ivory column of her neck. With a tenderness, that even to him, Gene Hunt 'the king of inappropriate' is out of place considering their surroundings and their love to hate and hate to love relationship, he traces the tip of her ear with an almost undetectable tremor shaking through his finger.  
Reigning in some of his renounced confidence he sucks the delectable lobe into his mouth and tugs at it fiercely in a manner that is fixedly associated with his Manc Lion persona.  
The way she clings to him with nails faintly pressing to skin through the layers of his coat, suit jacket and what this morning had been a neatly pressed shirt courtesy of the dry cleaners around the corner from the station, her desire for him a little possessive as though she wishes - maybe he is disillusioned by hope that she would wish to brand him, the grumpy old lion as her mate. He likes the thought of it, being hers and for Alex to be his majestic Lioness.

He does not touch her more intimately then a hand at the nape of her neck, the other desperately clutching her thigh fearing that if he inches it any closer to where it wants to be she will slap it away or worse. Worse then being told off for trying to take the steps of this dance too quickly would be her stamping on his toe's and running disgusted from him.  
He does not, he must admit, let the kisses hinder her knowledge of his want of her.  
His tongue slipping into her mouth, tasting under-sweetened tea, the mint of her tooth paste and beneath it all the flavor he has waited for, her, a sweet watered down iron and as is the way with this over complicated woman something he cannot place with a name.

This has to run at her pace, however, slow or fast. He is intricately aware of his ability to lose the ground he has gained with an unwanted advance or some spectacularly misjudged words.  
Scared is not the right word to describe how he feels, he is somewhere between elated and not wanting to be perceived as being an insensitive twat like Carling or a bumbling idiot like Skelton, they are is friends, but sometimes he wonders...  
He is thinking too much, something Alex obviously feels is unacceptable as her hands are racing his to the finish line. Trousers and leather belt already negotiated out of the way and her long, elegant fingers curling around him. Her palm warm, her thumb making circles against his taut flesh.  
He is careful not to use the word 'tart' in any context, but "Christ!" He moans deeply. The way she is handling him, the tickle of nails, subtle twists of the wrist that convincingly suggest that she either did subsidized her income after university or that maybe she enjoys these tactile forms of explorative touch.  
He stops her before it is too late and he makes a fool of himself at her hand.  
His hands take her own hostage. He stands between her parted legs breathing heavily in tandem with her. They are locked up in a world fit only for two. Lips praying for more of everything.  
Under normal circumstance he would take great pleasure in letting her fondle him in public. He can imagine nights in Luigi's sat in a discrete booth with a cloak of shadows obscuring their out of work 'team building' activities, but here to a worshipper of all the things that litter these shelves this must be like holy sacrilege, a pair of beautifully formed breasts might have them praying at a different altar.  
He raises her hands to his chest and moves in close so that hers remain trapped between them, her palms close to the rapid call of his heart.

Gene dips his head to the graceful arch of her neck so he can taste the skin there and take in her scent for a second time. His mouth and teeth against her pulse not biting but feeling it throb with life.  
He is supposed to be composing himself, taking control of the situation, but with her such a thing is extremely elusive. Her presence snatches and pulls apart his usually strong exterior leaving him exposed, he never cries 'mercy' just lets her carry him into the orbit of her every whim.  
He is drunk on her kisses. Her mouth pressing hard against his to prove she is not going to back down even when incapacitated. He admires her for her fight. She wants what she want and damn it if she won't get it.  
He should break himself away from the sweet suicide of her lips, but at this point his mind is light of blood, he has given up the thought of ever being able to leave here alive when she is determined to give him a heart attack.  
Her ankles hook around his back as though he has the strength to walk away from this, from her. He has wanted her for so long, too long and to convince himself otherwise is a waste of their time. Time that he can and will be spent with her, even if she only holds him at the centre of her attention for a fraction of a second. She had planned this whole excursion, this undercover operation. Maybe she just wants a piece of the Manc Lion, a bit of rough. With a snap of her fingers Alex could have any man on their knees waiting, begging for her order and he has been right down there with them waiting for his moment in the sun of her gaze.  
What they share is unique, unlike anything he has ever experienced. There is a connection between them that goes further then his hand feeling the shape of her breast through her chiffon shirt and her stiff bask. They talk, something that in the past he would have forgone for the good stuff but she has a way of making you appreciate all that she is willing to give.

Women like her are hard to come by, like the spectrum of a rainbow her shine is forever changing. She can be so brave, head held high as she fights for what is right and the next minute she will give him that hopelessly lost look. Then there is the child like eagerness she sometimes gets, that knowing smile, and the way she flirts with her whole body and a twinkle in her eye. When those looks are dampened with a touch of disgust and rage, a pain that she sorts to numb at the bottom of a bottle, a method he can understand, the reason something she is unprepared to share, she is still beautiful beyond comparison.  
She gives him a thousand different emotions in one look and he wishes he could decipher everyone, there is a second of what might be longing, something very close to - dare he even think it? Love and then that rage, burning brighter then he has ever seen it, she is passion, blazing in his arms.  
Her mouth is all teeth, tongue and lips as though she is trying to eat her way into him and the way she is going he would not be surprised if she managed it. Her hands clutch at his shirt trying to keep him close as she forces her weight backwards. He cannot stop the movement, only control the momentum so they land softly.

She is laid out flat on her back with him leaning over her. Her lips holding his fascinated as she wiggles beneath him to pull her skirt up. He pulls back a little at the insistent nudges at his shoulder to look at her.  
"Please," she whimpers huskily as she struggles with her skirt, her eyes shiny with desperation.  
He can feel the same desperation within him, he needs her something rotten and here she is almost begging for him. His hands are quick, helping her tug the offending article up around her waist, his eyes not leaving her's as the lingering desperation is pushed aside by a wild excitement that ignites within those Hazel depths.  
She pulls him back to her, demanding, "Now," and suddenly they are both fumbling with clothes. He grins at the French knickers made of delicate lace as he pushes them aside and guides himself to her pushing into her welcoming warmth as she raises her hips impatiently to meet him.

The world is spinning out of control and right now the only thing left to cling on to is her withering hips, he let's her use them to express herself rather than pin and control her completely.  
Part of him wants control over her, to lock her in a room, tie her wrists and ankles to the corner posts of a bed in a place where work does not exist and food is not a necessity. He will take her over and over until he breathes his last in her warm body, until she breaks him.  
This woman yielding to him is to be his down fall. No pleasure will be greater than what she is giving him. She is his sweet addiction. He will crave her every day, more so than he has already. He should care that she so obviously owns him, he ought to rally against her, but the painful honesty is he has been waiting to be owned like this.

Under normal circumstances he would take his time in enjoying her fruitful body, but these circumstances are far from normal.  
Maybe it's that the simmering sexual tension between them has come to boil or because they are here, bodies married in a raw union. Either way the thrill is almost too much for his battered heart, the thought that they could be caught in the act sends his pulse racing higher and faster.  
He is doing everything he can to prevent the desk from making a sound under their combined weight and frantic thrusts.  
The more he tries to keep the movement, not sedate, but at a pace that does not shout, "We're having sex in the library," the more determine his body is to over rule him.  
Trust his own body to betray him for her, not that he did not love this particular betrayal, but at least he could say it was not his fault, not that judge nor jury would believe him.  
It's only when she let's out a yell of surprise and bites on her hand does he realizes her body is at the beginning of losing, her body tight and withering, her legs trying to draw him in further as if he was not already pushing her to the limit.  
When they are both suddenly there control is a distant memory and the table squeaks gratingly. His hand covers her screams, and her chest stifles his.

Trouble is clicking its way to them, he can hear the Receptionist's shoes tapping with menace over Alex's fast beating heart.  
He helps Alex sit up and takes in her disheveled appearance and lopsided grin with a swell of pride at having roughed up her prim and proper exterior.  
They will get caught looking a mess though, if she doesn't get a move on. Gene tucks his shirt in and looks very much the same as he did to begin with, but Alex is still lounging, sex mused and apparently not having heard the steady footfalls worming their way around the maze of bookcases and private study areas obviously looking for them and her reason to banish them from her papery kingdom. Gene catches her up in his arms, holding her secure as he awkwardly pulls her skirt down over twisted underwear. He rubs the smudge of gloss from her chin and gives her a quick open mouthed kiss.  
Alex smiles at him still, this smile is planted firmly in reality as she combs through her hair with deft fingers.  
Gene realizes with a jolt that his second is not up, Alex still sees him and she is looking at him with quiet awe.  
Gene Genie's still got it.


End file.
